Friday, 29 June 2012

Cocks and Clowns

It was smoking a cigarette
in the dingy corridor outside the ladies loos in McDonalds. Black ringed eyes blazed from sunken
sockets. An afro of red hair framed the
Alabaster face.

I was rooted to the spot; earthed by an electrifying thrill
of terror. Through the skeins of smoke,
the rictus grin widened. I dropped my
ice cream, screamed, and ran for my life.

The Clown set off after me.
I could hear its canoe like shoes slapping against the floor as it
chased me down the endless passageway of eerily flickering lights.

Over the deafening rush of blood in my eyes, I could hear it
shouting at me. It’s voice was nasal,
wheedling and unequivocally Welsh.

I had almost reached the the door when I tripped over the
hem of my party frock and went sprawling to the floor. Slightly winded, I struggled to my feet and
turned around. It was standing over
me. The fluorescent light bounced off
its bulbous nose as it extended an unearthly yellow hand.

“What’s your name little girl?” it crooned. A red and white
striped sleeve rode up to reveal bare white flesh. I closed my eyes, opened my
mouth and lunged, biting as hard as I could.
It emitted a yodelling screech, staggered backwards and slid to the
floor clutching it’s arm.

“Fuck!” it whimpered, as blood ran between its fluorescent
fingers and soaked into the lurid yellow trousers.

I spat a small pulp of flesh onto the floor as the door
opened and a matronly looking cashier bustled in, humming to herself.

“Oh my God Gwenny! What happened?” she screeched, clutching
her face in horror.

I shot under her arm, fought my way through the crowded
eating area and and threw myself into the arms of my friends Mother, sobbing
hysterically.

In the ensuing chaos, Ronald/Gwenny was carted off for a
tetanus shot, I vomited copiously into an open hand bag, and the manager, an
officious little Welsh Man with a wonky eye, demanded that the whole party leave
the premises immediately. The two adults
in charge of our group were faced with the unenviable task of rounding up 20 hyperactive five year
olds and the accompanying detritus of coats, toy and satchels as the manager
looked on scowling and tapping his foot.
Outraged at having to leave before pudding, the children dug their heels
in and screamed blue murder . Little Billy, whose behavioural problems were
well documented, switched into feral mode and
head butted the manager in the crotch.

Suffice to say, I was never invited to another McDonalds
party.

My Mother delivered a bunch of flowers the next day. Gwen, sporting 3 stitches in her right arm,
grudgingly acknowledged the folly of grabbing a child who was, in her own
words, “scared to death”.

“I was on a fag break. I was only trying to reassure your
little girl. Perhaps I’m not cut out to being Ronald McDonald.” She sighed.

Once the initial trauma had subsided and I could actually
talk again, my Mother made laudable attempts to assure me that Ronald McDonald
was not a monster. I listened grimly as
she explained that he was merely a Company Mascot – a harmless buffoon, a
marketing ploy to engender feelings of camaraderie and fun amongst its young clientele.

“There’s not just one Ronald McDonald you know, there are
LOADS of them. They’re EVERYWHERE!” hissed my my older sister, when Mother had left the
room.

I gawped in horror.

“There’s one under your bed right now. It’s going to get you
when you go to sleep. It’s got fangs that drip blood and it’s going to chop you
up into little pieces.”

At this point I sustained a massive panic attack and my
Sister was sent to bed in disgrace.

Mother’s reassurances fell on deaf ears. A terror was spawned that day, the roots of
which are so trenchant, that my palms sweat at the sight of a Circus Poster.

Jasper suffers from Alektorophobia, a morbid fear of chicken
or poultry, a prohibitive condition for any country dweller, (pheasants are rife!)
particularly one whose wife is an avid
collector of rare breed Bantams.

As with many
sufferers, the primal source of his phobia stems from a traumatic experience in
childhood. (He was six) The seeds of fear were sown long before however, by virtue of his Mother’s pathological
aversion to anything with wings or feathers.

He can vividly recall her terror if a jackdaw dropped down the
chimney into the hearth. She would rush out of the house shaking with
fright, and refuse to enter it until the
bird had been released outside.

On shooting days, his Father was forbidden to bring the bag onto the premises until every last feather had
been plucked and disposed of.

Feather dusters were anathema. Her new Daily Lady inadvertently bought one into the house one
day and started dusting the kitchen where Jill was making cakes for the Hound
Puppy Show.

She had just taken a
giant slab of fruit cake out of the AGA. She turned around to put it on the wire rack,
and was confronted by a voluminous bundle of multi coloured feathers
twitching menacingly amongst the crockery on the dresser. She succumbed to a crippling panic attack and dropped the cake on the
floor.

Jasper’s earliest memory is of sitting at the table in his
high during a large family Lunch gathering.
A pair of starlings flew into the Dining Room just as his Mother came
in carrying an enormous tray of cut crystal glasses. The birds swooped and dived wildly as the
assembled guests waved their napkins at
them in an attempt to drive them out of
the window. Uncle Albert, red faced from a surfeit of wine, leapt up
and swatted wildly at the terrified birds with his Trilby. He caught one of them full on, sending it
hurtling into the wildly heaving bosom of Jasper’s Mother. With a primal scream of terror she flung the tray into the air and
bolted. She was out of the front door
and down the garden path before it hit the floor.

Jasper’s early years were liberally punctuated with alarming bird related incidents, each one compounding his grim conviction
that birds were the work of the devil
and should be avoided at all costs. It is little wonder that by the time he was
six, he displayed a deep distrust of
anything with feathers.

He was almost seven when
he was involved in a terrible incident which proved to be the catalyst
in transforming a wary dislike into a full blown phobia.

So profound was his
trauma, that the acute horror of that day remains intact, undimmed by the passing of
time. The visceral minutiae of fear is so deeply entrenched, that decades later,
the memory still haunts him.

It was a beautiful Summer day. Jasper and his sister, who were four and six
respectively, were playing at a friends house down the lane.

They had spent a happy
morning building a raft and playing in the stream, until Kate (the friends Mother) called them
for lunch.

They raced each other up to the garden where picnic blankets
had been laid out alongside plates of sandwiches, crisps and cakes. The children were ravenous and started to
eat.

Jasper was on his fourth sandwich, when he noticed that
Thomas was staring over his shoulder with an expression of horror. Turning
around, he almost choked. Standing by the Potting Shed, almost concealed
in the long grass, was the biggest Cockerel he had ever seen. It was taller than the compost bin with a
thuggish neck and a deep muscular chest.

It swaggered out of the long grass and fixed a malevolent
eye on the children.

Lucy began to whimper.

“Shhh, nobody move a muscle.” Hissed Thomas.

“He must have escaped.
Daddy keeps him locked in a pen.”

“Why?” asked Jasper faintly.

“Because he’s so dangerous. He hates people.”

There was a brief silence while the children digested this information.

“What are those sharp things on his ankles?” whispered Tori.

“They’re his spurs. Daddy said they’re like razors and they
can cut you to ribbons. When he attacks
he lifts his legs up and slashes at you like this.” He said, demonstrating.

The cockerel was heading
their way. It high stepped towards them on thick scaly legs.
Jasper fought a wave of nausea. He rubbed his clammy palms on the shorts,
shivering as he noticed how
it’s spurs curved like sickles and the reptilian black eyes glinted
evilly beneath the blood red comb.

The two girls scrambled to their feet and towards the house
sobbing with terror.

Thomas grabbed Jasper’s elbow and hissed

“Get up very slowly,
no sudden movements, and then walk backwards. Whatever you do, don’t turn your
back on him.”

Jasper gulped and stood up. His legs were shaking.

The cockerel never took his
eyes off them.

Suddenly, without warning, it ran at them, head lowered,
wings outstretched.

Both boys screamed, turned and raced towards the house. Jasper was a little tubby as a child and
couldn’t run as fast as his friend. Thomas reached the garden fence and threw
himself over head first, before turning around and shouting to Jasper.

“Hurry up! Run faster, he’s catching you up!”

Jasper huffed and puffed, his heart banging against his
ribcage as he struggled to run through the long grass. He had almost reached
the fence when he tripped over a tussock and went sprawling to the floor.

He was lifting himself up when a heavy weight slammed into
his back, sending him flying onto his face.

The cockerel was upon him!

Thomas screamed and wet himself.

Jasper squealed, trying desperately to shake the bird
off. Its sharp toe nails scrabbled agonizingly at his bare flesh as he stabbed viciously
at the nape of his neck with its pointed beak.

Several hens came running over to spectate.

Jasper, sobbing and exhausted, was convinced that end had come. I am going to be killed by a
cockerel he thought, as the crazed bird beat its powerful wings around his head
and scratched and stabbed and pecked.

Suddenly there was a shout, and Rupert,
Thomas’ Father came charging into the paddock brandishing a Rifle.

“Don’t shoot my Brother!” screeched Tori, running after him
and kicking him in the shins.

“Stand clear!” he bellowed, taking aim.

“For God’s sake be careful!” yelled Kate, who was standing
wrapped in a towel in an upstairs window having been summoned from her bath by
the carnage outside.

“BANG!” Doris, Kate’s
Prize Buff Brahma who had sidled up for
a better look, keeled over in a cloud of
feathers and twitched violently.

“Fucking hell!” screamed Kate, dropping her towel.

“Shit!” muttered Rupert. “Sights out.”

The discombobulating sight of his favourite hen flapping and
writhing in her death throes proved a fortuitous distraction for the psychotic bird. Evidently aroused by
her untimely demise, he jumped off
Jasper’s back, rushed over to Doris’s
twitching body and began thrusting with
wanton abandon.

Rupert rushed forward, seized Jasper and carried him to
safety.

Jasper was taken to hospital where his wounds were dressed
and he was treated for shock.

The Cockerel, who had made a dash for liberty, was
eventually cornered in the greenhouse, and decapitated with an axe.

Jasper was, understandably, deeply disturbed by the attack.
The incident left him with an enduring terror of birds. He vowed never to go near another chicken for
as long as he lived.